


I Carry Your Heart

by TheLoonyMoony



Series: Love itself shall slumber on [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, POV Remus Lupin, Wolfstar deserves better, dammit, seriously all the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 20:38:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12465508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLoonyMoony/pseuds/TheLoonyMoony
Summary: Some love stories are doomed from the start.





	I Carry Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Title from E.E.Cummings' beautiful poem.  
> Lyrics from Make You Feel My Love, by Bob Dylan.

**Part 4: Remus Lupin**

18 June, 1996.

 

The flames in the fireplace have all but smothered down. No poetic crackling of firewood to set the background, no dramatic shadows cast by any fiery embers. There is, however, an old muggle radio belching out soft, staticky songs. Because really, there has to be some noise loud enough in Grimmauld Place to drown out the ghosts in this wretched husk of a house. Ghosts that aren't really there.

 

_“_ _When the rain is blowing in your face…”_

 

Remus has never really been able to decide how he feels about Bob Dylan’s singing. It’s always been one of those unvoiced, hesitant, pet peeves of his.

 

_“…And the whole world is on your case…”_

 

Ah. The lyrics though.

 

_“…I could offer a warm embrace…”_

 

That’s just it, Remus decides, Dylan’s a _poet._

 

_“…To make you feel my love.”_

 

The kind of magic Dylan weaves, lies in words. Just your ordinary muggle words, spelling something magical without any kind of wand waving. And in the end, maybe that’s all anyone ever needs, right? Just words?

 

 

Words have, for as long as Remus can remember, been his escape. His shelter. Remus uses his quill and parchment like his personal therapy/punching bag. He recalls sighing resignedly at the Marauders’ newest prank, recalls quietly pretending not to see Professor McGonagall’s disappointment. Instead, he screamed his frustrations and annoyance onto paper. When times went really, especially bad, he recalls looking at the patchwork of pink scabs and red blood that his post-fullmoon body is, knowing how futile adding a scar to the wrist would be. Instead, he would bring out pristine white parchment, and bleed in blue ink all over it.

 

Words had always been Remus’ go-to solution.

Until it wasn’t.

 

 

 

_“I know you haven't made your mind up yet_

_But I would never do you wrong…”_

 

He doesn't know what to say, he wouldn't know how to say it anyway. Remus looks over at Sirius’ hunched over figure diagonally across from him at the table, poring over an Order document, something about occlumency. There was a time he could have sworn he knew every square inch of that body as intrinsically as his bones know the shift in the phases of the moon. He doesn't know how to correlate that laughing boy to the broken skeleton of a man he sees now. Still, he tries to reason with himself, Azkaban may have shattered Sirius’ frame — and really, it’s not like any of them who survived the first War, survived without a few cracks — but they hadn’t been able to take away his soul, his brilliant mind. Surely?

 

“ _…I’ve known it from the moment that we met_

_No doubt in my mind where you belong.”_

 

“Take an enchanted portrait, it’ll last longer,” Sirius drawls, head still bent over yellowed parchment, and Remus very carefully pretends not to start.

 

“I —” he starts. Pauses. Swallows. Possibly there are crickets chirping in the distance, for all Remus knows, but all he can really think about at the moment is that Sirius has abandoned his reading and is looking at him. With those _eyes_ , and that too, hasn't changed, despite the wrinkles and the crinkles, the black at the edge of his lashes.

 

“HAH,” Sirius’ laugh snaps in a mockery of what it used to be, “You’re the eloquent one, Moony.”

 

“D’you know what,” and Remus isn't sure if it comes out as pathetic or poetic, “I used to talk to you still, in my head. All those 12 years.”

 

“Me too, I talked to you too, all of you. James and Lily’s ghosts were the only ones that answered back. I thought you —“ Sirius stands up in agitation, fists clenching on the rough tabletop, torso leaning accusingly towards Remus, “Thought you would show up to Azkaban and save me. My sodding prince on a sodding horse! Hah!”

It’s too bitter to be a compliment, too heartbroken to be an insult.

 

“Instead you broke my heart, Moony.”

 

And Remus doesn't know where to even start. Everything from that cursed Halloween in Godric’s Hollow and right up to this broken moment right now, all of that could fill books, and Remus is too tired for words. There’s so much, there’s too much, and the more Remus tries to focus and string together a coherent explanation from the jumbled knot of memories, the blurrier the pictures in his head get.

 

_“…No there’s nothin’ that I wouldn't do_

_To make you feel my love.”_

 

“I’m sorry,” Remus whispers, winces at the inadequacy of that word. “I didn't know. I thought you were breaking mine.”

 

_“The storms are raging on the rollin’ sea,_

_And on the highway of regret…”_

 

“Could we —“ hesitancy is not a look Sirius has worn often, “Do you think we can… Holy _fuck_ does it sound clichéd, but. Could we, uh, start ov—“

 

“Yes.”

 

_“The winds of change are blowing wild and free…”_

 

 

Remus knows he must seem like a loon; unbridled, unfamiliar, long unused grin stretching his tired muscles, pulling at the scars on his face. Ah, it’s been long since he’s felt that particular ache. He watches — half euphoric, half still dazed — as Sirius walks to him, looking much the way Remus feels. And it’s not the cocky saunter Remus’ mind vividly remembers, and that’s not the smarmy smirk that the young Sirius, the rebel of Hogwarts, was wont to wearing on his face.

 

_“You ain’t seen nothin’ like me yet.”_

 

Their hands are the first to touch, fingers skimming, palms spreading over each other’s, like a promise, like the renewal of vows taken eons ago — back when dreams still meant something, hope wasn't something to laugh at and love wasn't such a terrifying little word. Remus doesn't pull and Sirius doesn't rush in, their foreheads resting together as they _breathe,_ and Merlin, has Remus missed breathing without it hurting.

 

Sirius moves eventually, dragging a hand away from where it is clenched in Remus’, dragging it up his arm, all the way up, up, past bony elbows and goose fleshed skin, up till he can trail his (slightly shaking) hand across the back of Remus’ neck and hold on for dear life, and _oh_ , that still makes his Moony’s eyes flutter shut, just so. Remus rests his hands on Sirius’ chest (pretends he can’t count his ribs through his shirt), rests his reddening face (and _holy hopping hippogriffs_ he is too old to be _blushing_!) on Sirius’ shoulder, hides a panting breath or two on the side of Sirius’ neck. Tentatively, like asking permission, he draws his mouth over the edge of Sirius’ jaw, feels the prickle of lazily maintained beard, feels it to his toes as his smile meets Sirius’. It’s not sexy, it’s not a hot clash of tongues and teeth. It’s _warm_ instead. Like homecoming, like slowly melting chocolate and the steam that whirls out from a cup of tea.

 

_“I could make you happy, make your dreams come true,_

_There’s nothing that I would not do…”_

 

“Thought I’d lost you,” Remus drags his lips over Sirius’, finesse be damned.

 

Sirius tightens his arms around him, pulls him closer still, “Me too.”

 

“Thought I was doomed to spend the rest of my life journaling like a fucking teenager,” Remus’ mouth abandons Sirius’ for a moment, makes a quick detour to nip lightly at his ear, comes right back to where it belongs again.

 

“Me too,” Sirius mumbles into his mouth. Moves his face back to stare into Remus’ eyes for a second (or an hour), moves bodily into a hug, “Man, I’ve missed you.”

 

Remus crumbles in his arms, “me too.” He’s still grinning like a madman, so he doesn't understand why his eyes are stinging, and why are his cheeks wet all of a sudden?

 

 

There’s an abrupt hiss and a crackle from the fireplace, a few sparks leaping into the air. Remus and Sirius startle apart, just as a discoloured head makes an appearance in the flames.

 

“Black!” Snape’s warped voice grates out, “you better be abducted and dying right now!”

 

“Nice to see you care, Snivellus,” Sirius drawls out, still giddy and riding the high.

 

Snape’s eyes snap to him, swivel to Remus standing by, snap back to Sirius, and his face goes visibly rigid.

 

“Your idiot godson has outdone himself this time,” he manages to grit out.

 

All the air in the kitchen seems to still as Sirius bites out “Explain. And quickly.”

 

“Potter seems to be under the impression that you are currently being held and tortured by the Dark Lord. So of course him and his little hoard of halfwits are attempting a daring rescue mission as we speak,” Snape’s mouth twists sarcastically, “They are headed to the Ministry of Magic. Department of Mysteries. Lupin, Floo in as many from the Order as you can. You can play Black’s blushing bride later.”

 

There’s a light _whoosh_ as Severus Snape’s head makes its exit, followed by a flurry of activity. Remus gets hold of Kingsley and Tonks, asks her to get Mad-Eye too. Sirius tries (in vain, again) to check in with Harry via the two-way mirror.

 

Remus and Sirius share a look. There’s no time for a kiss. There will be time for all that later.

 

They rush out of 12 Grimmauld Place, wands at the ready, mind already on the Three D’s of Apparition.

 

_“…Go to the ends of the Earth for you,_

_To make you feel my love.”_

**Author's Note:**

> (I'm sorry if you thought this would have a happy ending.)


End file.
